striving for imperfection
by Mending the Sky
Summary: When I first posted this, it was speculation on Prom spoilers. Now, it's an AU./Quinn stands up. REPOSTED.


**A/N: written: March 2012  
edited: August 10, 2013  
I wrote this as speculation for Prom spoilers. Obviously we know this didn't happen now, so it's technically an AU, but enjoy nonetheless!**

She actually still cares a lot about prom queen.

She doesn't know why. It's stupid, really; after all she's been through, after every single thing that has shaken up and demolished her once-pristine, immaculate life, she still wants that one famed crown, an eternal, ubiquitous reminder of her high-school fame.

But why would she ever want to be _perfect? _It's not like she's ever been that way in the first place.

!

She actually thinks she _knows_ why she still cares, when she thinks about it long enough.

Last year, it was all about perfection. It was her comeback year. Fresh off a summer of working off baby weight and pretending her stretch marks were invisible, she strove for flawlessness and the life she'd once had: the life of popularity and beauty and high status. This year she was going to get it all back, and on top of that, every teenage girl's dream would come true for her: She would win prom queen. She took her Cheerios uniform back, wore it proudly and reminded everyone that she was still Quinn Fabray. She was still put-together; she was still in control.

But even if she was in control, she was still imperfect. Beth was still there. Puck was still there. She ignored both in hopes that they'd disappear. And they didn't. But if she pretended like they didn't exist, well, then, they didn't.

Her running for prom queen was her grasping at straws, her desperate for her last chance to regain her spot on top, to climb back up onto her pedestal and stay there, but then her pedestal topples and she teeters precariously on her tightrope, which she's only just managed to take a step on, before she falls again.

And when she fell, she fell hard.

!

She actually rose again, though. Just in a different way, with a tattoo, pink hair, punk clothing, and a scowl that was much, much worse than her old icy glare in its own way. Her attitude was this: _Nothing matters anymore._

She'd sent her past up in smoke as she lit her cigarette and when nothing was left but a charred piece, she tossed it onto the pavement and stomped out any memory of anything.

Then Shelby came back and with her came _Beth. _Immediately she has a hysterical desire to see her daughter. She must see her, she _must, _because after all, her daughter is perfect and is everything she once strove to be.

But just like all perfection, her daughter is snatched away, never to be seen again, and the sloppily-sewn, jagged scar, which has just been stitched together in a lopsided way as if done by shaky fingers, breaks open again and she is bleeding, profusely, but she can't even really feel it anymore.

!

She actually doesn't see the truck. Or hear it. She _feels _it, which is odd because it's been a long time since she felt.

And it hurts, it hurts really badly, and as she fades away, back into the flames she thought she'd snuffed out, she wonders if she was destined to lose whatever she gained. Had she ever gained her life? She must have somewhere, because Fate, the nimble thief of dreams and long-lost wishes, has just stolen it from her. She falls back into the ashes, like a phoenix never reborn from the fire that destroyed it.

!

She actually doesn't think she'll get out of the wheelchair.

The wheels always blister her fingers when she rolls down the hallways, and it always makes her arms extremely sore, and it always makes tears pool in her eyes so she has to roll around a corner somewhere so she can wipe her face.

Artie says she'll get used to it (the blisters and the soreness, he means, not the unshed tears).

She doesn't want to get used to it. She wants to _walk._

!

She actually looks up (she has to do that now because of her chair) one day and spots a poster for prom. Displayed on it is a photo-shopped picture of her, in her Cheerios uniform, hands on her hips, smiling brightly and looking young and fresh, next to Finn in his varsity jacket. The poster reads, "Vote Finn and Quinn for Prom King and Queen 2012!" She doesn't know who put it up; it makes her curious for a moment or two.

She looks at her old self and is torn. Why had she ever flounced around pretending that she was above everyone else, that she was some sort of royalty and had to be treated as such, that she was _perfect _and everybody else was just beneath her and her excellence? It makes her feel (or _almost _feel, since she's lost that as well) _disgusted._

But somehow she misses being able to feel that way.

She wheels down the hallway and her fingers blister some more.

!

She actually wonders what Joe sees in her. She's not lying.

There's something endearing about someone who likes her that way even knowing about her past. Maybe that's why she liked Sam, too. But she doesn't like Joe, can't bring herself to. Boys seem so petty compared to the idea that she might not ever get to walk down the aisle to marry one.

!

(He actually still pays attention to her, even though Beth is gone with Shelby now and they don't have her back. He watches her wheel down the hallway with Artie sometimes, watches Joe roll her down the hallway sometimes, and wishes that _he _could've somehow taken her place _all the time. _Because Quinn Fabray deserved _every good thing _that came her way and none of the bad things. Because Quinn Fabray was going to get out of Lima and he was pretty sure he wasn't. It would've been better if it'd been him in that wheelchair.)

!

She actually wonders if she'll win. Maybe she will because she's in the chair. Maybe everyone will vote for her because they pity her. After all, she's been through so much.

She'd like to think that people would vote for her because they _like _her, but she knows that's not true. Everyone looks down on her in the hallway with sad, sorry eyes. She hates it, she hates it so much, and she hates it even more because the word lost its meaning a long time ago. She knows the word "hate", knows the emotion that is supposed to come with it, but that anger, that quickening of pulse, that drawing of eyebrows and grimacing of mouth, that heat that is supposed to hit her and pump through her blood in a river of fire as insults pour from her lips as her heart clenches in revulsion, is gone. She hasn't really felt anything in a while now, to be honest.

!

(He actually votes for her until someone comes in and tells him he can't vote for her any more than he has. And even then, he considers stuffing the ballot box or something just so he can see her face light up in something halfway genuine, something reminiscent of a real smile. But then he remembers that then it'd be cheating. And he figures she's cheated enough, right?)

!

She's actually at prom. Her hair is done all nice and her dress is floor-length and sparkly. Her make-up is flawless. When her mother bent over and gave her the handheld mirror for her to hold after she'd finished doing her delicate curls, she'd stared at her reflection for a long, long time. She almost looked like she had a few years ago when everything had been (appeared) perfect.

!

She actually won prom queen.

She feels triumphant, oddly enough. Like she's won, like she's finally, _finally _become perfect. Except that she can't walk to receive her crown, just like she can't walk into Yale for orientation in a few months, just like she _can't _do anything because nothing lasts and everything, even her beauty, will fade.

But Finn is looking at her and all of a sudden he says, "Stand up!"

She averts her eyes and pretends she didn't hear him, but really she had and so had everyone else, because now they're all turning to look at her. Every student at McKinley is looking at her, perplexed. There's a whisper running through the crowd: "'Stand up'? Can she walk? Why is he telling her to stand up when she obviously can't?"

Finn tells her again: "Stand up!" Louder this time.

She looks up, meets his eyes, then looks away again. Her heart is pounding. This wasn't supposed to happen. She's won, right? She's finally-she's finally won-winning isn't supposed to feel like this.

Figgins waits for her on stage, which is led up to by steps on one side and a handicap-able ramp on the other. The crown glitters on a purple velvet pillow. For a moment she is transfixed by it, her breath hitching in her throat as she realizes what she's done.

She wasn't perfect last year. She definitely isn't this year. And what she needs to do now is be honest.

She looks at Finn again, leveling her eyes with his, and slowly, her hands grip the arms of her chair. She pushes, wincing, until her feet hit the floor, her legs swinging precariously of their own accord. They hit the floor and she _feels _it, her body aware of the tingle shooting up her legs. She's still reminding herself to get used to the feeling.

By now she's halfway off the chair. The rest is arm work. She remembers what the physical therapist told her to do and she pushes upward some more, steadily, until she is upright. _Standing. _She wobbles a bit, her legs unsteady and still feeling like Jell-O, but she is _standing _and she is not paralyzed and now McKinley will realize that they shouldn't have voted for her because she's a liar.

!

(He actually has to catch his breath when she pushes herself out of that chair and stands. She's shaky, yes, but she's standing. There's a glint of determination mixed with something else, something unreadable, in her eyes, but all he can think about is the fact that she can walk. She discards the chair behind her and slowly begins to move forward.)

!

She actually wants to laugh, because Finn's mouth is dropped open in a slack-jawed look of awe and Rachel's expression is quite similar to it. She looks at no one, really, but at the same time, she looks at everyone and sees the realization blossoming in their eyes: _She tricked us. She can actually walk. She guilt-tripped us into voting for her and she can actually walk!_

She nearly trips herself, unsteadily climbing the stairs to the stage. Figgins looks at her for a moment, comically open-mouthed, before hurriedly picking up the crown and placing it atop her head. "Students, your Prom Queen, Quinn Fabray," he manages before quickly abandoning the stage.

No one claps. No one at all.

The crown feels foreign on her head, oddly-placed and cold and metallic. She doesn't like it. It's like it (she) doesn't belong here (anywhere). She reaches up and touches it experimentally. She confirms that she doesn't like it; she doesn't like it at all.

She purses her lips and takes the microphone from its stand. "Hello," she says into it, and her voice reverberates around the decorated gym. Everyone is still staring at her.

"I know what everyone is thinking," she says, trying not to focus on the elephant in the room: her unoccupied wheelchair, still parked in the center of the crowd with a good four-foot radius of space around it. "'Ah, she tricked us! We fell for her trap! We pitied her and she _lied to us!'"_She puts on a whiny imitation of her own voice, fluttering her fingers for dramatic emphasis. "What a bitch, right?" She snorts at herself and has to swallow the tears because they've suddenly arrived, an imitation of guilt now swallowing her whole. She continues nonetheless, forging on.

"What I have to say is this: Yes. I tricked you. But if you knew the half of-if you only-" The words catch in her throat and she ducks her head for a moment, blinking back tears; if she cries, her mascara will run and there will be an ugly, black _blemish _on her cheek, and she can't have that, now, can she? "I don't deserve this crown," she manages finally, taking a literal and metaphorical step back.

The gym is still dead silent. Her eyes scan each face (except for one) and she finds the same surprise, shock, and-she knew this was coming—_anger _on each one (except for one). For a moment she wishes she could step into one of the other student's shoes, just to see if she could recognize the feeling of hatred all of them (except for one) are feeling right now.

Her eyes lock on Rachel Berry's face. "Rachel," she says into the microphone, "come get your crown."

There is some more silence. Everyone shifts to look at the brunette diva, watching her mouth move. "Quinn, I couldn't-"

From onstage, she interrupts. "Your crown, Rachel. Come get it."

After a moment, Rachel ascends the stage steps, heels click-clacking, and faces her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, her legs beginning to quake with the effort of standing for longer than five minutes at a time (plus walking; her therapist had also told her to take it easy on that for a while), she reaches up and removes her crown and places it atop Rachel's head. With that, she brushes past her and, though she'd like to make a swift exit, is forced to limp along the outskirts of the crowd until she can get outside.

!

She actually doesn't cry. Tears hold no meaning for her anymore, she doesn't think. She's cold and barren and empty. And now everyone hates her (what does that feel like again?).

She sits outside on the steps, legs awkwardly folded underneath her. They're sore now, muscles stiff and tired, and she thinks that all she did was stand for a few minutes and walk a few yards. The therapist said it would take time for her body to accustom itself to walking again. But she wasn't patient, now, was she?

Inside Rachel Berry is prom queen. And Finn is prom king. And they've got their little storybook fairytale moment while she is the evil queen who has been dethroned so many times she's lost count.

The door swings open but she is too apathetic to everything, even the chilly spring evening air, to pay attention to who comes out. But of course she knows who it is right away; he's wearing the same cologne he wore the night they had sex and everything began to spiral downward.

!

(He actually has to catch his breath again. She's so brokenly beautiful.)

!

She actually wishes he'd leave her alone. How typical of her. She'd always pushed him away, and he's always had relatively good intentions. It's the same way now.

"Why did you do that?" he asks her, standing in front of her. His tuxedo is black. He's always looked good in black, she thinks.

"I wanted to win," she says in a monotone. It's not the entire truth and he knows it, but he doesn't push her; he's always respected her for the most part.

"That's not what I meant," he says. It's not the entire truth and she knows it; she doesn't push him, either, though, like she has before. "What I meant was, why did you give your crown to Rachel?" he rephrases.

She shrugs one shoulder limply and still avoids looking at him. "She deserved it more than I did. She didn't cheat."

"Fuck that, Q."

At the severity of his tone, she looks up. He doesn't look angry; more like upset. His eyes are dark and his shoulders are rigid. She raises a delicate eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"No one deserved it more than you. Doesn't matter how you got there." His voice softens.

"I cheated, Puck," she hisses at him.

"You're going to Yale, right?" he snaps back.

She opens her mouth to speak, legs still trembling on the steps of their own accord, but she sets her jaw and reluctantly nods.

"You deserve it, right?"

Now she hesitates. He notices this and shifts over next to her, plopping down on the steps. And when he speaks, she feels tears gathering in her eyes.

"Quinn, you worked so hard these past few years to bounce back from when I screwed you up. Remember when I told you that you were going to get out of here?" He nudges her shoulder; she nods. "You're still going to. Because you _deserve _to. Just like you deserved to wear that crown. You get me?"

A smile tugs at her lips, a real one. "I get you," she says quietly, looking down and playing with her fingers in her lap.

"Good." Now he stands and offers a hand to her. She looks at it quizzically.

"What?"

"You're going to dance with me. Just once." His eyes glitter in the moonlight, and in them, she can see billions of ounces of affection for every ounce of hatred left in the gym.

!

(He actually takes her hand and helps her stand up. Her legs are wobbly, but he holds her steady with a hand on the small of her back while he holds the other one tightly, their fingers intertwined. His smile is beatific, as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be than swaying to an unknown rhythm at the back stairwell of school, while the whole of McKinley High sits shell-shocked in the gym.)

!

She actually thinks it's kind of nice, dancing with him. His hand is warm and she's not going to fall. She feels as if they've danced before. They're two strangers who know each other very well, she supposes. They're perfectly imperfect.

And as he hums softly into her ear, a melody that is vaguely familiar as well, she _feels _something warm blossoming in her chest, something tingly and pleasant and hopeful. Color seeps back into the world. Her heart pumps more than blood. It is like her entire body is awakening, opening places that were previously closed off as the warmth spreads through her.

She's forgotten how to hate, but maybe she can remember how to _love._


End file.
